As One King To Another
by Ichabod Grue
Summary: Caspian comes to a realisation: The warrior who fought as Peter did in the battle with the Telmarine Army, short as it was, could not have been the same exhausted duelist who matched Miraz blow for bloody blow in the preceding duel ... unless ... unless the duel itself had been not much more than showmanship on Peter's part.


It never occurred to Caspian to think about it until that final day, when the Pevensies were to return to England. He saw Peter and Susan speaking, very quietly and very seriously, with Aslan; and he noted the easy swing of Peter's gait as he walked along. It had been very nearly a week since the battle, of course, but even so...

Peter had taken everything in his stride. The duel with Miraz had been grueling ... but had it really been so grueling? Caspian thought back, and remembered Peter turning to meet Sopespian's charge. One swing of his sword, and the Telmarine lord was down; and then the backswing, such a seemingly natural follow-up to the first, returning his sword into position ... and the Telmarine lord was dead.

Miraz was a worthy fighter, that was true, but he wasn't that much greater a swordsman than Sopespian. And after that long, intense duel, how had Peter found the strength left to move like that? To put down a trained warrior in two seconds, with what amounted to a single pendulum-swing of the arm? The more Caspian thought about it, the more he realised that, however battered and bruised Peter had seemed—_seemed! _—during the duel, he had afterwards fought with as much ferocity as the freshest warrior...

Peter had finished with whatever counsel he had with the Lion, and was now coming down the hallway. Though he looked troubled, he was whistling bravely, and swinging his sword before him in a way that might seem idle to the casual observer. Caspian was no casual observer: he saw that Peter was reliving the memory of some long-ago battle.

Peter hailed Caspian with a greeting before the latter had quite decided what to say, and Caspian couldn't help but blurt it out: "You were toying with Miraz all along."

Peter's brows shot up, but he never faltered. "Good eye, old chap. I didn't think anyone would notice."

"Why?"

"As I recall, the plan was to delay Miraz and the Telmarine army while Aslan did whatever it was he needed to do. Of course I drew out the duel as long as I could." And he'd gotten dreadfully banged up and knocked about as a consequence. It can be even more dangerous, in a duel, to play at being weak than to come out in all your strength. But Peter didn't seem to mind that.

"You could easily have killed him right then and there. There wouldn't have been a battle afterwards."

Peter shook his head. "Caspian, as one King to another, that wouldn't have worked. Some things simply have to be done a certain way, even if it seems to make better sense otherwise. I've learnt that the hard way. If Aslan's shown up, then trying to go on without him would be worse than useless. And you saw yourself that Miraz dying didn't help anything. Do you really think the Telmarine lords wouldn't have cried treachery even if I'd walloped off his head fair and square?"

But Caspian was stubborn. "Suppose you really did beat him—without killing him right off. It was a duel to the death. You would have had to kill him then, and no-one could cry treachery."

"He wouldn't have been mine to kill, you know. What I should do in that case would be to hand the sword over to you."

"To me!"

"It was your right and your duty," said Peter nonchalantly. His back straightened as he turned to face Caspian, and there was a shift in the inflection of his speech—this was the High King speaking, not the English schoolboy. "As King, the fate of a regicide is yours to judge. And had the kingdom come to you solely by my hand, you would be forever beholden to me and no true King at all. As it now stands, you could perhaps say that I helped you to your throne; but none shall say that I gave it to you."

In that moment, Caspian understood how High King Peter had come by the title of "the Magnificent". It was not his considerable prowess in battle, though that certainly helped: it was his understanding of all things Kingly, the nuances that made the difference between Honour and Foolishness. Caspian looked at his feet. "Well," he faltered, "I certainly hope one day to be even half the King you are."

"I give you seven years." Caspian looked up at this, and caught Peter grinning mischieviously. The English schoolboy was back. "Fifteen, if you want to go the whole hog. Gracious, I wasn't born a King, you know! I had to learn, and it took ages! Now come on, I'm dying for a good spar."

Caspian thought briefly of the duel, of Miraz, and of Sopespian; of the whirling blades and the fury before the awakened woods put the enemy to flight. He didn't much fancy getting into a fight, even a mere spar, with the sort of person who could cut down Sopespian in half a breath after an apparently exhausting duel; but, on the other hand, the chance of learning some of that battle wisdom was too good to miss. "Are you sure? I mean, of course I'd love to!"

A look of infinite sadness crossed Peter's eyes as he looked down at his sword, a look which Caspian didn't understand, not then. But the next moment, Peter had sheathed his sword—for he meant to run, and it is dangerous even for a great Warrior King to go running down the halls with sharp objects in hand—and he was smiling again. "Jolly good! I'll race you to the armoury: last one there's a rotten egg!"


End file.
